Inside the Song Series #4: Exposed
I had prepared for months, getting my lyrics and chords into my body. I rehearsed weekly with my guitarist and took voice lessons to build stamina. Then, two days before my house concert—with 50 people RSVPed—I got the flu and had to cancel. It took me three weeks for my lungs to clear. This wasn’t the last time my body would try to stop me from sharing my heart and soul.
The following year, I had two concerts planned a month apart. The week before the first, my entire upper body seized in spasm. I could barely strum or form chords on my guitar. Determined not to back down, I popped muscle relaxants and got through the night.
By the second concert, my body had found a new show-stopping strategy. Days before the performance, I developed a severe case of laryngitis. No respiratory symptoms—just a voice that all of sudden, and conveniently, didn't want to cooperate.
This time, I thought, I'm on to you.
I rested my voice, went to acupuncture, drank slippery elm tea, meditated, and swallowed Advil to reduce the swelling. I couldn't hit all the high notes, but I gave the concert anyway.
One spring, after performing a concert of my newest songs, I reflected on how hard my body had fought me. I was proud that I had shown up anyway. Yet I was also nursing what Brené Brown calls a vulnerability hangover—that uncomfortable feeling after sharing something deeply personal.
At the time, it was Purim, the Jewish holiday when people wear costumes and masks. One of its deeper themes is revealing what has been hidden. As I watched people put on masks, I found myself thinking about one I wore every day. My mask was hiding a longing—the deep desire to share my songs and be seen. But concealed alongside that longing were all the flaws and insecurities I hoped no one would notice.
What if it wasn't good enough?
What if no one cared?
What if I revealed myself and wasn't received?
I sat with the contradiction: the urge to curl up and hide, and the equally strong desire to reveal my truest self. Two questions emerged:
What if I let the world see all of me?
What if I took off my mask?
Then I began writing...
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Writing prompt for your journal:
Imagine setting one of your masks on the table in front of you. What does it protect you from? What does it cost you? What might become possible if you set it down? Write from the voice of the mask. Then write from the voice of the part of you that longs to remove it.